y of
the Blue Bird would steal into my mind amid the heaps of legal and
parliamentary documents by which I was hemmed in. I used to reflect
then that the human soul contained infinite desires, unimaginable
metamorphoses and hallowed sorrows, and if, under the spell of such
thoughts, I gave to the clause I chanced to be engaged upon an ampler, a
humaner sense, an added respect for the soul and its rights, and for
the universal order of things, that clause would never fail to encounter
vigorous opposition in the Chamber. The counsels of the Blue Bird seldom
prevailed in the committee stage. Howbeit some did manage to get through
Parliament.

I now perceive that I am not the only one inspecting the little stall:
a little girl has come to a halt in front of the brilliant display. I
am looking at her from behind. Her long, bright hair comes tumbling in
cascades from under her red velvet hood and spreads out on her broad
lace collar and on her dress, which is the same colour as her hood.
Impossible to say what is the colour of her hair (there is no colour so
beautiful) but one can describe the lights in it; they are bright and
pure and changing, fair as the sun's rays, pale as a beam of starlight.
Nay, more than that, they shine, yes; but they flow also. They possess
the splendour of light, and the charm of pleasant waters. Methinks that,
were I a poet, I should write as many sonnets on those tresses as M.
Jose Maria de Heredia composed concerning the Conquerors of Castille
d'Or. They would not be so fine, but they would be sweeter. The child,
so far as I can judge, is between four and five years old. All I can see
of her face is the tip of her ear, daintier than the daintiest jewel,
and the innocent curve of her cheek. She does not stir; she is holding
her hoop in her left hand; her right is at her lips as though she were
biting her nails in her eager contemplation. What is it she is gazing
at so longingly? The shop contains other things besides the arms and the
gear of fighting men. Balls and skipping ropes are suspended from the
awning. On the stall are baby dolls with bodies made of grey cardboard,
smiling after the manner of idols, monstrous and serene as they. Little
six-penny dolls, dressed like servant girls, stretch out their arms,
little stumpy arms so flimsy that the least breath of air sets them
a-tremble. But the little maid whose hair is made of liquid light, has
no eyes for these dolls and puppets. Her whole so